


Swords as Accessories

by Minxie



Category: Adam Lambert (Musician)
Genre: M/M, friendship!tommy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-10
Updated: 2010-08-10
Packaged: 2017-10-11 00:55:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/106440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Minxie/pseuds/Minxie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After god only knows how many YouTube vids, Brad finally sees the concert live in Costa Mesa.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Swords as Accessories

**Author's Note:**

> **Beta:** vlredreign and sunshinyday5762 *smooches you both*
> 
> **Disclaimer:** It's all lies. Lies, I tell you. Well, unless it's not.
> 
> **A/N:** Because I have an unholy fascination with Brad and, really, the timing of his appearances and the rumor explosion and the tweets… and mostly because I have an unholy fascination with Brad. It all just came together into this. ;-)

After god only knows how many YouTube vids, Brad finally sees the concert live in Costa Mesa. He dances and screams and flails accordingly because, yeah, it's _Adam_.

And because, well, because _he_ is Brad. Flailing and dancing is his default. Doing it with Adam, _because_ of Adam? That just fits into this whatever-the-fuck they've been playing at for months now.

By the end of the concert, Brad is reduced to a sweaty hot mess of happy, exhausted, horny boy. By Adam, of course. It's the story of his life. But now that he's experienced it, now that he's become one with the mash of generations and sexes, of straight boys in eyeliner and gay boys in chinos that eat, breathe, and live GlamNation, he has gloating to do.

Because Brad had been right, goddammit. Adam fucking Lambert was made for entertaining. And he's finally where he belongs: rocking the fuck out of every venue he rolls into.

Making Adam say it, say those three little words – _You were right._ – becomes Brad's mission of the night. Fingering his phone, he even thinks about recording them. For posterity or some shit.

When the stage stays dark and the field lights come up, Brad digs around in his pockets for the piece of laminated cardstock that arrived the day before and starts making his way to through the clusters of blissed-out fans.

At the barricades, he smirks at the gaggle of screaming girls and, flashing the backstage pass – complete with a scrawled _Don't fucking stand me up._ from Adam, – he slides through the slip of space security opens for him. Knowing the star is a rather heady thing. Having been fucked by the star? It just calls to Brad's inner bitch and, at the last second, he turns and waves, blowing kisses to the more creatively dressed.

Fuck 'em if they can't take a joke.

"You are such an ass."

Brad turns and squeals, throwing his arms around Neil with an exuberance he _knows_ will set the man's teeth to grinding.

Right on cue, Neil pushes Brad away with a growl. "What the fuck?"

"Thought you might have missed me."

"Wrong Lambert," Neil snorts and starts weaving his way behind the stage. "Come on. Buses are out here. It'll take him a few. Everybody wants a piece of him."

"And that is something I can actually understand."

Neil chokes, the noise caught somewhere between amusement and disgust. "TMI, Bell. Way TMI."

"You know, I remember this time…"

Brad wraps his fingers around Neil's bicep and, as they walk to the buses, prattles on, gleefully watching the emotions the flit across Neil's face. There were times when Neil was just too easy.

Then they're coming around the front of the bus and Adam is walking up from the opposite end and Brad sees him up close and personal for the first time in weeks. He recognizes the look in Adam's eyes immediately and, without thinking, exclaims, "Holy shit. You need to stop tonguing the straight boys and work on getting laid."

There's a ten second lapse where Adam stands there looking bewildered and then, giggling, he reaches out and pulls Brad in close to his chest. "Fuck, I've missed you."

* * *

  
Brad follows Adam into the bus and perches on a chair, watching as Adam goes into full mother hen mode first by calling Tommy and Monte, and then follows with short conversations with Cam, LP, and Lane. It's a side that Brad hasn't seen in a while. A side that he loves to witness.

"Everyone safe and sound?"

"Safe? Yeah. Sound is questionable." Adam grins and plops down, kicking his flip flops off and stretching out along the couch. "So, there's this family thing..."

Brad starts to push to a stand. "I can go. Maybe tomorrow..."

"Or you can stay." Adam looks up, catches Brad's eyes with his, and just for a second, a flash of a second, Brad sees vulnerability staring back at him. "They probably won't stay long. I mean if you want to and all."

"I want."

"Yeah?"

Then Brad flashes a flirty grin. "When haven't I ever?"

Adam laughs and shakes his head. "Freak."

* * *

  
They drink too much wine and by the time Neil walks the rest of the family out, Adam has shifted on the couch, his head resting on Brad's thigh.

"I should be going. Rock stars need their rest."

"'M comfy." Adam rolls, curling onto his side with his face burrowed against the jut of Brad's hip.

And Brad is struck by how exhausted, how just plain tired Adam looks. It's time for someone to take care of Adam.

"Let's at least get in the bed, baby." Brad starts cajoling Adam into sitting and then standing.

Adam wraps his fingers around Brad's wrist. "You'll stay?"

Swallowing, working to keep his voice steady, Brad nods. He hopes they're ready for this. "Of course. Not like I haven't seen it all before."

* * *

  
Brad wakes up with Adam drooling on his shoulder, the weight of Adam's arms and legs pinning him to the bed. Wiggling against the hold, he mutters, "Still a possessive bastard, aren't you?"

Adam makes a sniffling, snorting sound and turns, curling his body to follow Brad's without waking up.

Grinning, Brad drags a hand through Adam's hair and settles back down, drifting back to sleep with the calming weight of Adam surrounding him.

* * *

  
Watching the second Costa Mesa show from the stage wings is an experience. Watching it in a pair of borrowed jeans and one of Adam's tees is embarrassing. Especially since the jeans belong Tommy. The boy, as far as Brad is concerned, is seriously lacking in fashion sense.

After the show, Brad jokes with Adam and Sutan, learns that Tommy really is a good guy, just fucking hangs out until the buses are loaded and Lane is giving Adam the hairy eye.

"She's fucking scary."

"No shit," Adam whispers.

And then Adam is tugging Brad into another hug, similar yet somehow different to the one just the night before. He brushes his lips against Brad's cheek, drags over skin and stubble and presses them against Brad's ear. "See you in Vegas?"

"Yeah," Brad replies just as softly. "You will."

* * *

  
Vegas is hot and Brad is covered in a fine sheen of sweat and grit long before he reaches the hotel. And all thoughts of trying to see Adam before the show are pushed aside in favor of a shower and a drink. An icy drink. With a lot of fucking liquor. Because if Brad is going to be this hot, this uncomfortable, he's at least going to be drunk enough to not really care about it.

A quick text to Adam –

    _In Vegas. Will see you after. Rock it, baby. xoxo_
– and Brad goes back to daydreaming about cool showers and even colder drinks.

* * *

  
Brad hangs back, drink in hand, and watches the crowd separate into two distinct groups: the casual fans who like the music on the sand and the hardcore Glamberts in the water. He even recognizes a few faces from the Costa Mesa shows. Grinning, he murmurs, "Baby is making the big time."

"You know him?"

Brad cocks his head toward the bartender – Scott, according to the badge pinned to his chest – and raises a brow.

"You know Adam Lambert?"

He runs an assessing eye over Scott and immediately groups him into Glambert potential – not quite there yet but well on his merry fucking way.

"Yeah, I know him. But it was long before all of this," and Brad waves a hand at the ever-growing throng of people.

"He seemed a little high strung today. You know, when they were doing sound checks and all."

Brad chuckles softly. Only if everyone knew just how _high strung_ Adam could get.

"He's past due for a queen out, if you ask me." He bites back the _…and copious amounts of tremendously dirty sex_ at the last minute. Because he may be interjecting his need for the dirty sex and, really, Scott seems nice enough now but that doesn't mean he wouldn't tell tales given half the chance.

The bartender nods sympathetically. "A day off probably wouldn't hurt."

Brad agrees with a tilt of his head, amused at the near clucking of Scott's mother-henning attitude. The boy is definitely Glambert material.

* * *

  
Even once the sun goes down, the Vegas heat pulses and dances like a living thing. Brad can't imagine how Adam and the band are going to actually perform with sweat rolling into their eyes. He's almost glad when they announce that the start time has been pushed back to 10:45 because Heat Stroke Adam is not the version he wants to play with tonight.

At least he is until some of the fans go cunty and start bitching. After that Brad is just pissed. And drunk. He's definitely a little bit drunk. That just makes his pissed all the more righteous. Because, yeah…

"…when did entitlement become the latest in fanwear?"

And, oops, he didn't mean to say that out loud.

Scott snorts, shakes his head slowly, and hands Brad another drink. "That one's on me, man."

Brad grins and then pushes the drink back across the bar. "Trade me out for a bottle of water, 'kay?"

"Reunion planned for tonight?"

"Perhaps." Then, with a smirk curling his lips, Brad winks and walks away. He's gonna need another shower before he meets up with Adam.

Fucking Vegas.

* * *

  
After the concert – really, right after the holy_jesus_fuck dry-humping on stage – Brad rushes through a shower and heads downstairs, the all access pass to Adam hidden in his pocket. He runs into Tommy, literally, just outside the hotel.

"Hey, man." Tommy smiles and reaches out, steadying Brad with a surprisingly strong grip. "Headed to the buses?"

Brad quirks a grin. "Yeah."

"Walk with me. I'm just gonna sign a few..." Tommy motions to the line of noisy fans.

"Yeah, okay."

Hanging back in the shadows, Brad watches as Tommy signs and poses, never once losing his cool. And he feels a sharp pang of gratitude for Tommy. Because this is surely the calming influence that has kept Adam from completely flying apart between tour stops.

Tommy steps back from the crowd, waves again, and then rolls his eyes as Brad starts walking with him again. "Come on. That'll buy a little more time for you to get Adam away from this." Then Tommy cuts a sideways glance at Brad. "You are planning to get him away from all this, right?"

"Was gonna try. He's about ready..."

"...to blow," Tommy finishes. "Yeah. It wasn't so bad but the heat and the sound feed warbling over the water. He just needs total down time. No band, no glam, just..."

"Just Adam." Brad bumps against Tommy, scheming and friendly and he thinks that, okay, they could be friends and work together to keep Adam at the top of his game. "He'll get it. Assuming we can sneak him past the..." and Brad throws a hand up and back at the paps and the hyper mass of fans that are vibrating with post-concert adrenaline excitement.

Tommy smiles then. The shy, happy grin that Brad has glimpsed in a few of the YouTube vids. "Monte and I have a plan for that."

* * *

  
Spiriting Adam away is easy enough and ten minutes later they're tumbling through the door of Brad's room, laughing and teasing about the craziness of sneaking through a back entrance and using staff elevators to get to Brad's floor.

And as soon as they're alone, as soon as the door shuts and locks behind them, the laughter fades and they're staring at each other, quiet except for the sound of their breathing, as a tension fills in the space around them.

"We're doing this again, aren't we?"

Brad rejects the easy, quippy reply because this, this chance at a do-over with Adam, is something that he _wants_. It's something that they've been working towards. The logical culmination of the dates they've had like TigerHeat and the GLAAD awards. All of the tweeting and texting. And the late night, after concert phone calls and ridiculously idiotic souvenirs that Adam sends to Brad from places like Wilkes-Barre, PA and Hammond, IN.

It's a rebuilding of something that was so fucking good but went wrong into something that feels so fucking right that it's almost scary.

Because what they didn't have before – age and experience and communication skills – they've worked for, fought to make a part of whatever they are be it friends or lovers or both. And adding it to the explosive _chemistry_ between them is an overload of sensation and all Brad can do in the face of it is smile and nod and reach out a hand, dragging Adam closer.

Brad's answer, his fucking promise, is in the tilt of his head, the feather soft brushes of his lips. It's in the cant of hips and the gut-wrenching moan that bubbles up and out when Adam slips one arm around Brad's waist and the other around his shoulders, crushing them together until they're grinding and kissing and just goddamn well _loving_.

Finally everything slots into place and they're laughing and teasing and flirting. They're undressing each other, stumbling over shoes and pants and the sound of a shirt ripping gets lost and forgotten beneath the collision of old and familiar – like the way Adam's fingers migrate around, touching and feeling and caressing until his hand is holding Brad's throat, wrapping loosely just under the jaw line – runs head long into the blur that is exciting and new – like the silver piercing Adam's nipples...

And when Brad scratches over each nipple in turn, Adam, his body flush and slick with arousal, moans, "Fuck, fuck, _fuck_."

Sounds like a damn good plan to Brad. "Bed. Now."

* * *

  
The mattress is almost too soft beneath him and when Brad arches his back he plants his feet, looking for a leverage that is just out of reach. Then he is whimpering and begging, murmuring words like _yes_ and _now_ and _please_please_please_ because no matter how much ever went wrong between them, it had never extended to the bedroom.

And with this new but old thing happening, it's even more intimate, more intense. Something that Brad didn't believe possible.

They slide against each other, mapping and learning, tasting and marking; neither of them leaving the other untouched. Then Adam is opening Brad up, first with his fingers and then with the steady press of his cock. And, with Adam gripping his thighs, fingers pressing in hard enough to leave a set of dusky fingertip bruises, Brad sighs and rides the burn that has always belonged to Adam.

When Adam bottoms out, when his balls are pressed in tight against Brad's ass, they both release stuttering breaths.

"Holy fuck," Brad murmurs.

Adam grins, brushes his lips over Brad's sweaty forehead, and whispers, "That is the plan."

Then Adam starts moving, a gentle undulating of hips that is almost heartbreakingly familiar.

And Brad just gives in to it, follows the almost liquid rhythm that Adam sets, vacillating between fast and harsh to slow and languid and back again.

* * *

  
And finally Adam leans in, runs his tongue over Brad's shoulder, traces along the straining cords of Brad's neck. Over and over and over.

Brad knows what's coming. Remembers it. Wants it. He pushes his head back into the pillows, giving Adam as much access, as much room as he possibly can. Because Brad damn near fucking _needs_ what's coming next.

Then, with the whispered command still ringing in Brad's ears – _now, baby_ – Adam sinks his teeth into the meaty flesh of Brad's shoulder. And Brad trembles and shakes, his mouth falling open with a silent plea, and, with one long drawn moan, he spends himself between them.

Adam growls a harsh, "Fuck," and then bites down again as he loses all semblance of grace and humps into Brad with series short, hard thrusts and, his muscles locking, Adam whimpers as his orgasm overtakes him.

* * *

  
Condom gone, most of the mess wiped away on the tattered remains of Brad's shirt, Brad curls into Adam, pleased and happy and a little bit scared. But mostly just fucking happy.

"We can't fuck up this time."

Brad drags his fingers over Adam's chest, thinking before answering. "It's us, baby. We can't help but fuck up." And then he flicks one of the silver bars piercing Adam's nipples. "We just can't _not_ fix it this time. Can't let it build into a monster, into some kind of fire-breathing dragon that can tear us apart."

Adam's arm tightens around Brad's shoulders. "Can we do that?"

Brad pushes up to his elbows and stares, waits for Adam to meet his gaze. "We can do anything, right? Slaying dragons shouldn't be a problem at all."

"Dragon slayers, huh?"

"Well, yeah. Swords are excellent accessories." And when Adam's chest shakes with laughter, Brad grins and keeps going. "They're shiny, usually have jewel-encrusted handles. Who can find fault with anything that sparkly..."

"Freak," Adam giggles, "You're such a fucking freak."

And then Adam is rolling on top of Brad, kissing him through the smile and laughter, and Brad silently vows the next gift in this oddly played courtship will come from him.

Because, really, finding a sword can't be all that hard.

* ♥ *


End file.
